


Methods of Distraction (And Other Fun Games)

by MyckiCade



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Mpreg, Non-sequential, One-Shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:09:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: A ship full of idiots, a wide-open galaxy, and time to spare. So not a recipe for disaster... *snicker*A collection of drabbles, snippets, and one-offs, some of which may not be our heroes' finest moments.





	1. The Business of Blessings (Mpreg)

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is for, ah... Right now, just Peter/Ronan one-offs? But, that could easily change. Opening with the first one I received…
> 
> Prompt: Can I get some Peter/Ronan mpreg please? Everything else is up to you :) - E

He had the urge to clear the ground, to look out and see nothing. Level it all, back to how as it had begun. But, then, that was an urge that came to him, almost daily. To raze the civilization known to any given planet, in atonement for... Well. He'd likewise about run out of reasons, out of wrongs to place upon this land, and that. Or, maybe, it was more a loss of desire to see it through.

Or, perhaps, if Ronan was honest with himself, he'd admit that it was the doing of a certain Terran half-breed.

Two days. That had been the original timetable for their stay on Anuan. It was a tiny, half-dry planet, that was host to far too many beings. And, next to Ronan, the Anuan people looked like the small, plastic dolls that Peter's father had kept in his ship. Trags? Trolls? Something of the kind. A bunch of pale (read: nearly transparent) humanoids, with unnerving, light grey eyes. People that somehow managed to remain untouched by their suns. Managed to grow what they needed to survive, even in the middle of - what had Peter called it? - a 'dust bowl'. Ingenious, hard-working, adaptable little things, they were.

Ronan wanted to punt them across the galaxy.

Regardless, they had been hospitable, for what had become a week-long repair job on yet another ding to the Milano. They hadn't balked at Ronan's presence, beyond a few widened eyes. The worst that anyone had tried to do, was ask what kind of pet Rocket was. (Three scratches, and a death threat, later, Gamora had managed to smooth things over). Their leaders hadn't been unkind. The Guardians had been put up in a series of comfortable rooms. Repairs had begun.

Peter was _sleeping._

That, in and of itself, was worth the entire trip. The young man had been having such a difficult time of it, since his pregnancy had begun. Between nausea, and bathroom trips, and just general discomfort... It was really no wonder that he'd nicked the side of that asteroid. Peter had become nearly zombie-like (the Terran's own words), the last few days, ignoring vocalized concerns for his well-being. (Stubborn, twice-over, now that he was with child). But, put him in a position where he had no choice, but to curl up on a nice, soft bed?

Glancing over his shoulder, to where Peter was in just such a state, Ronan smiled. That asteroid may have been a blessing, in disguise.

He couldn't help but shake his head, at the thought. Such a joke, blessings used to seem. Something for other people to hope for, and rejoice in. Ronan, he'd never found them, in anything. Everything had an explanation, a purpose. There were no mysteries to existence, nothing beyond. Everything simply... was. Or, once he was through with it, _wasn't._

That urge ticked back up, a little bit.

How things had changed.

Pulling himself away from the window, Ronan slid back onto the bed, arm going 'round his lover's hip. He curled his hand over Peter's growing abdomen, and sighed. The murderous intent, prevalent enough as he watched over the Anuan people, in the light of the morning, eased its way from the set of his muscles. Be it a blessing, or not, and for whom... It no longer mattered. Those desires were for another place, another time. Here, in the warmth of a foreign planet, all was as it needed to be. He no longer needed to take life. Not when he had just begun to create it.


	2. Intoxication Clarification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This was a fun prompt. I do this, from time to time, when I get stuck on things (the music part). Multiple layers were a challenging good time!  
> P.S. Ronan + Fluff = Thank GOODNESS, they're drinking!
> 
> Prompt: MULTI PROMPT! Peter/Ronan, doing some heavy drinking. Is fluff an option? Or, friendly fire? Put your music player on shuffle. Use the first line of the first song as your starter.
> 
> Song: “We Don't Have To Look Back Now” by Puddle of Mudd

"I'm... so much like you," Peter giggled, replacing the stopper into his bottle of Midas, on the third try. He dropped back, landing in a graceless uncurl, against the floor of the Milano. Limbs spread, eyes closed, a dopey smile on his face... It was almost like making a snow angel. Except, with no snow. And, no movement.

Beside him, a deep, dubiously-amused voice responded, "If you are implying that I have no control over my extremities, I must raise argument."

Shit. Apparently, there _had_ been some movement involved. Stilling the swaying of his arms and legs, Peter looked over at Ronan, in a pout. "Nooo... We have a LOT of things in common, dude!"

Ronan smirked. The blue bastard actually had the balls to _smirk_ at him. "Name me _one,_ Terran."

That pout quickly became a frown. "Okay, first, I have a name," he argued. "I may not remember what it is, at this moment, but, I have one, and I'd appreciate you using it."

"Whatever it is?" Ronan chuckled. CHUCKLED. Oh, he was gonna' kick his ass.

" _Second,_ " he continued, a bit louder than was strictly necessary. But, just a bit. His frown quickly dissolved to a scowl. "I'd like to open the floor, to the fact that we are both assholes." He scoffed. "As shown, just now."

Ronan merely shook his head, giving no pause, to consider. "No, we are not."

Here, Peter's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Are you trying to tell me, you're not an asshole?" he shouted, incredulous, sitting up in what his brain would tell him was a single, swift movement, but that video evidence would later support to be a fumbling, ten-second long struggle for balance. "HA! You're so full of it! _Dude,_ you're one of the biggest dickheads I've ever met!"

Beside him, Ronan looked a bit... surprised? "Actually, up until your little tirade, just now, I was going to claim that _you_ were not an asshole."

Oh. Well. That made a world of difference, but, the fact remained. "I so get that one. I'm right. We have shit in common."

Another chuckle, and Ronan leaned his head back, against the wall of the ship. Closed his eyes. Silence settled over them, for a moment, Peter resting back to the floor, again. He was almost surprised, when Ronan spoke up.

"I can think of a _legitimate_ one."

Peter perked right back up, eyes open, though he didn't move from the floor. "Yeah?" A little bit eager? Yeah, maybe. "What is it?"

Opening his eyes back up, just a sliver, Ronan smiled. "We both seem to forget who we are, when intoxicated."

A beat passed. Then, two. Finally, Peter smiled. "Well, I'll drink to that!" he declared, grabbing for his bottle of Midas, only to have it snatched away by the Kree.

"You've had about enough of this, Star Lord." His smile only grew, in intensity. The sight of it left a warm feeling tingling its way up Peter's stomach, which had nothing to do with the booze. "I don't need you to be anyone else."


	3. Five Units - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This one will be multi-chapter.  
> Prompt: The bet is five units.

The bet is five units. Correction, sorry, the bet starts off at five units. Rocket adds a side-stipulation, and Gamora brings up a variable that no one has considered, while Drax has all his cards on the table, and, quicker than you can say 'I am Groot', the bet has tripled in amount. And, sure, fifteen units isn't a big amount, by any standards, but, Mantis insists that it will help to keep them all friendly. (Okay, that, and the fact that the chick is 'dirt-ass poor', a direct quote from the not-raccoon, but it's not like Gamora doesn't spot her the money, anyway). The point is, it's a simple wager.

The Final Bet: How long will it take for Star Dork and the newly-acquired Kree to come to blows?

"I give it a week," Rocket growls, barely audible over the sounds of Exhibits A and B shouting obscenities, and general unpleasantness at one another.

"Idiot!"

"Tyrant!"

Gamora rolls her eyes. "It might be easier, if they just knocked one another unconscious, _now._ "

Mantis sighs, in agreement, marking down her own bet, on the small piece of paper that is serving as their tally board. She sets the pencil down, just in time to hear Peter scream, "Now, I get where the phrase 'Blue Murder' must come from!"

It's barely a moment, before Drax booms, "If _anyone_ is the definition of such a phrase-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Rocket interrupts, rolling a paw in Drax's direction. "Just, put your bet in." A glare is exchanged, before Drax makes his mark. He leans himself back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. Rocket looks around. "That everybody?" The tug on his pant leg says otherwise, as Groot clambers his way up Rocket's body. "You want in on this, too, huh, Groot?" Groot nods. "Okay, what's your bet, then? When do you think they'll tear each other ta' shreds?"

Groot gives another, single nod, accompanied by an affirmative, "I am Groot."

Turning his head, Rocket stares at Groot, silently... Before bursting into harsh rolls of laughter. "Oh, my g-You ca-can't be serious?!"

"What did he say?" Gamora asks, leaning her hands onto the table, across from them. She keeps her eyes on Rocket - as does everyone else in the room - as he pulls the paper and pencil back over to himself. He's still laughing, unable to get a handle on whatever it is that Groot has decided upon. With a swift mark, Rocket makes it official, and slides the paper back to the middle of the table. Gamora leans in, and reads, Drax and Mantis following, suit. Rocket's laughter doubles, at the imagined sound of their jaws creaking open.

The collective response is made known, simultaneously.

"'NEVER'?!"

Groot perches himself on Rocket's shoulder, legs swinging back and forth, innocently. Rocket has fallen to chuckles, backed by the sounds of a not-too-distant crash.

"Would you watch what you're doing, you fucking behemoth?! Things costs _money_ to replace!"

"As though a pathetic little Terran has any grasp of the true value of-"

"I'm tired of hearing your voice! Shut UP!"

Fingers moving to rub at her temples, Gamora sighs. "For our sakes, Groot, I hope you're wrong."


	4. Unnecessary Risks (Mpreg)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't know what else to do, beyond yell, threaten, and kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Pardon that wait. Things got in the way!  
> Prompt: Someone's hurt. Someone else is pissed.

By the time Peter and Drax are back on the Milano, Rocket has to speed them the hell away, for fear of a certain death, at the hands of creatures Ronan would once have thought nothing of destroying. _Still_ thinks nothing of destroying. Especially given the disheveled state of his companions. Drax is sporting fresh cuts, but barely pays them any mind. (He'll keep everyone awake, later, though, shouting in pain, when Gamora tries to disinfect them). And, Peter... There are holes in Peter's clothes, burn marks on his pants and shirt, a few that went right to the skin. The clothing will need replacing.

Ronan wonders, idly, whether Peter ever realizes that he, himself, can not be so easily changed-out.

It was supposed to be a quick supply run. Simple, in and out, 'No, I _don't_ need you to come along, and upset the locals' kinds of quick. The results say otherwise. What had happened, Ronan isn't sure, priorities dictating his limbs toward getting Peter into a careful seat, before beginning with any burning inquiries.

Eh. His mind's poor choice of words.

"What the hell happened, out there?!" Gamora shouts, beating anyone else to it. She looks over both men, before raising a finger at Drax. "I swear. If you got into some stupid, needless fight-"

Drax's offended gasp interrupts the woman's anger. "I would _never-"_

 _"HA!"_ Rocket laughs, not bothering to spare a glance away from the controls. "You so fucking would. S'why she asked!"

"Guys!" It's Peter, now, his voice a little shaky. Though, if anyone else picks up on it, Ronan can't really tell. "It wasn't Drax's fault..." He sighs, and hisses, faintly, as he shifts his hips, in his seat. Ronan frowns, not sure where to put his hands, that would be helpful. He settles for keeping them to himself, as he crouches down, in front of Peter. "I've never seen them before, the guys that came after us. Nor do I know what they wanted."

Here, Drax turns toward Peter, confusion written on his face. "What? But, you said that they wanted-"

"Drax!" The shout barely leaves Peter's mouth, before he's leaning forward, gasping in pain. He has one hand over his mid-section, a sight that stills Ronan's heart, in a dangerous way. The Kree wastes little time, sliding closer, and carefully lifting a non-protesting Peter into his arms. (That, in and of itself, is more than enough cause for concern).

All eyes - save Rocket's - are already on Peter. Before anyone can ask questions, Ronan glances back. "He should be laying down." Gamora and Drax both nod, which Ronan finds oddly relieving. He wasn't expecting a fight, but, all the same. "I'll settle him in, and, I'll come back, for a full report, Drax." It comes out of his mouth, like an order, one that he has no place to be giving. The man in-question looks mildly offended, again, and, he'd be well-within his rights to put Ronan in his place. He doesn't, though, even as Ronan stalks his way across the ship, and to the appropriate bedroom.

Peter is very much conscious, as Ronan lays him on the bed, eyes trained on him, in something akin to disappointment. "Don't go bothering Drax, about this." It's an odd thing to say, Ronan considers, but, he lets the human speak, uninterrupted. "It happened. It's over. And, it doesn't matter, any-"

Ronan has stopped listening, by now. Looking down at Peter, he can see more burn marks, some on his shirt. He reaches out a hand, carefully leaving it to rest over one hole in the fabric... It's long, and still warm, and it's clear that it narrowly missed the slight swell of Peter's abdomen.

"They wanted me, didn't they." It's not a question, he doesn't phrase it like one, but, Peter still has that lost, caught-in-a-solar-flare expression, as he clearly tries to come up with a cover answer. It's enough of an answer for Ronan, who heaves a heavy sigh. "They recognized you, and wanted me. Who were they?"

Peter frowns, which quickly becomes a grimace, as he pulls himself up, to lean back against the wall. "It doesn't matter, now."

"You nearly got yourself killed." He's growling, he knows, but doesn't care. It's going to start a fight, secondary to the main issue, and, still, he can't bring himself to care.

_Three. Two. One._

Peter squeaks. "How is this _my_ fault?!" He's two seconds from flailing his arms in protest, prompting Ronan to lift a hand.

"It might not be your fault," the Kree concedes instead. "But, it could have been handled, better, and, you know it."

Here, Peter scoffs. "'Handled better'. How, exactly? By giving you over, I imagine?"

There's no arguing that one. While not ideal, it would have helped the situation, even if he'd gone... less than peacefully. His lover wouldn't be covered in burns, and bullet holes. His unborn child wouldn't have been put in danger.

"It was an unnecessary risk," he concludes, at last. "You won't be going on any more supply runs."

And, again, it might have been pertinent to consider his words, before they left his mouth.

Certainly, given how Peter is presently looking at Ronan, as though he has lost his mind.

"You... Heh..." Peter scoffs, and shakes his head. "Are you really trying to tell me what I can, and can't do?"

He's backed himself into this, he knows. Why he ever thought it a good idea to partner with a human, in the first place... Which isn't fair, either. Ronan knew what he was getting into, what Peter was going to mean. Just... He hadn't been expecting it, all day, every day.

There are two options in front of Ronan, now, and neither looks terribly promising. The first involves carrying out this argument, to an ugly, mentally-exhausting finish.

Or, he can give up, entirely, and let Peter win.

That sure as hell isn't going to happen.

Reasoning with the man seems like a long-shot. Every muscle in Peter's body looks tight, tensed up, in preparation for what is sure to be one of their harshest encounters. They always get this way, always, when one another comes to harm. For what? Ronan is left to ask himself this question, now. Now, of all times. After they've nearly torn one another to pieces, verbally, on so many other occasions... That _now_ would be the perfect time for realization to dawn upon him.

A fight won't help them. It never does. It won't fix what's done. It won't heal his lover. Yelling can't even be good for their child, as relieved as Peter sometimes appears, after a good shouting match. He's ready for one, now. Which is entirely fair, especially where Ronan is concerned, and he can support it. He doesn't know what else to do, much of the time, beyond yell, threaten, and kill.

For Peter's sake, it might be time that he learns.

The look on Peter's face, as Ronan slides onto the bed, beside him, is beyond priceless. He wraps his arms around the smaller man, pulling him in, close. There's a moment of staring, of open disbelief, before Peter finally finds the page he is on. He curls against Ronan, carefully, relaxing into his hold. There are no further words. There is no argument, no ugliness. It feels strange, not losing themselves to words they would soon come to regret. Strange, but, somehow... pleasant.

Peter is calmed, to the point of sleep, within moments. Ronan regards him, quietly, stroking a hand over his hair, and looking over the wounds he can see. Peter needs to be tended to. Any other marks need attention, the ones likely hiding, where Ronan hasn't been able to see. He could do it, slide from the bed, now, and get him cleaned up. He doesn't, though, and doesn't that make him a sap? Worried, that he might wake Peter, in the process. He relaxes back, himself, truly basking in this unexpected moment of quiet. Rest would be welcomed, if he could be certain it wouldn't lead to Peter dashing off, again. A nap, leading to disaster? It's ridiculous. But, still... Another unnecessary risk.

Ronan almost wants to chuckle. Far be it, from him, to be a hypocrite.


End file.
